


Morning Time Petals

by maaaaa



Series: Floater [4]
Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Glimpses of Jim's and Blair's lives pre-canon and post TSBYBS living with the Chopec.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Series: Floater [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693147
Kudos: 7





	Morning Time Petals

The summer after Blair Sandburg turned sixteen, about a month or so before he had to be at Rainier to start classes, he spent part of a hot July day in a crowded holding cell inside a military installation in Virginia known as The Farm.

Naomi had told him about a demonstration to protest the alleged CIA covert assassin training activities that took place deep inside the complex, and had told him where and when to hook up with the organizers. Naomi herself was on her way to Tibet with a group of friends or she'd have been there with him.

Having little else to do before meeting up with an 'uncle' he was going to hitch a ride cross-country with in a beat-up eighteen-wheeler, the contents of which he judiciously chose not to inquire about, Blair thumbed his way down along the East coast to check it out after seeing Naomi off.

He ended up at a run-down commune littered with ramshackle old buildings a few miles outside Williamsburg, where he was welcomed with open arms by a mishmash of hangers-on from the heyday of the '60s counterculture movement. Some of them he knew, acquaintances of Naomi's, and most of them were older than he was. They had peace symbol covered placards splattered with make love not war rallying cries and anti-government slogans, and no shortage of stories of bygone protests and marches.

He was pretty much undecided about whether or not to join in. Maybe a few days of sun-worshiping on an Atlantic beach to tide him over during the upcoming cold, wet months in the Pacific Northwest would be more fun and a better use of what little time he had left to fritter away.

Blair was just about ready to find an excuse to skedaddle when he noticed a girl close to his own age. Unlike Blair, she seemed extremely excited about the goings on and was really getting into the spirit of things. He watched her for a while and from what he could glean from snatches of conversation, she too was a wayfarer's orphan.

Blair perked up a bit and was screwing up the nerve to approach her when she turned and glanced his way. And in that moment Blair would've sworn she met his gaze head-on, smiled at him, and winked conspiratorially as if she knew without a doubt they'd be protesting together in a few short hours. In that split second he'd envisioned the hint of a promise of maybe something more.

So, allowing his overly imaginative teenage libido to decide for him, when the time came to leave Blair hopped aboard the banged-up, psychedelic-painted old school bus, lured on like a love-struck puppy, and settled in for the ride.

He soon regretted his somewhat rash decision once the bus started its bumpy, swaying journey out to the Virginia Peninsula. Despite repeated attempts to make eye contact, the girl whose smile had enticed him paid him no notice. Dejected, he spent most of the ride squished between two pot smoke-reeking, aging hippies who sang Blowin' in the Wind in crackly, off-key voices and insisted on jostling Blair until he reluctantly joined in.

As much as he'd always loved the song, after singing it nonstop no less than four times Blair was almost ready to start tearing his hair out. He was saved from having to resort to that drastic measure by a momentary lull in the singing due to a bout of nostalgic hugging and air-sucking coughing on the part of his seatmates.

And then from the back of the bus a tremulous female voice started singing Imagine.

Along with everyone else Blair turned to see who it was. And this time he was sure that girl was looking right at him. He smiled somewhat self-consciously but didn't look away. She returned the smile and tilted her head invitingly, and Blair joined in. They sang, just the two of them; two clear, dulcet young voices serenading their fellow passengers with heartfelt conviction.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Blair's spirits were revived. The protesters disembarked just outside the boundary of the base near the front gates and immediately started chanting and waving their signs. Blair joined in, swept along now in the charged atmosphere and feeling ridiculously euphoric. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he kept tabs on where the girl was.

Not long after the protesters started demonstrating, a television news truck pulled in and set up shop. And once the cameras were rolling it didn't take long for things to escalate. A small troop of soldiers emerged from the compound led by a grim-faced sergeant. An order for the protesters as well as the camera crew to disperse was given. And ignored. A moderately heated standoff ensued, with the protesters pressing steadily forward amid shouts and fist waving. The soldiers stoically stood their ground as their sergeant repeatedly commanded the demonstrators to back off.

As if by some silent command, the protesters suddenly quieted. And then they all took just a few more steps and they were on government property.

Freedom of speech notwithstanding, trespassing on Uncle Sam's property, especially on a restricted base, is frowned upon by the military, to put it mildly. So it was really no surprise to any of them, Blair included, that the minute they crossed the line from public land and set foot on the installation grounds, the exasperated sergeant ordered his men to forcibly remove them.

The protesters had all been prepped on what to do, and Blair had been through this particular drill before, though never without Naomi. He wasn't a stranger to protests. Far from it. In fact, the very first protest he'd ever attended was while he was still in the womb. And when he was six months old, he took part in the November 1969 march on Washington, kept snug and warm cocooned in a sling against Naomi's body. And there was no shortage of issues throughout the '70s and early '80s – nuclear disarmament, women's rights, environmental awareness, to name a few – both in the United States and abroad, in which Naomi, more often than not with Blair in tow, had participated.

Along with the others, Blair plopped down onto the hot asphalt surface, linked and locked arms with the two guys on either side of him, and waited. He did a quick check around him and looked up and down the line of seated demonstrators to see where his singing partner was. He was immeasurably pleased to note she seemed to be scanning the group for him as well. When their eyes met, they gave each other brief smiles of encouragement.

For a while not much happened. The sergeant seemed to be assessing the best way to deal with the situation, obviously very much aware of the nearby news crew.

The sun was ungodly mid-summer scorchingly hot, and the black asphalt absorbed its rays greedily, searing Blair's backside through the thin, worn denim of his jeans. In a matter of minutes he was drenched in sweat that beaded along his hairline and trickled down inside his clothes.

Before it could get much worse, the sergeant made up his mind and reiterated his orders, which the soldiers began to follow methodically. They slung their weapons over their shoulders and took hold of whoever was within reach. When one of them grabbed Blair, he went limp, as the others had, and allowed himself to be dragged, not off the grounds as he'd naively expected from past protest experience, but through the gates, where he was manhandled onto a truck along with the others and transported into the compound. Everyone was herded into an imposing block building and locked up in a large holding cell without any to-do on the part of the military, much less due process, and left there.

Inside the cell, hot, tired, and now hungry to boot, Blair was barely conscious of how miserable he ought to be thanks to the presence of the equally hot...okay, he didn't really notice anything beyond hot...body of that girl, who had sought him out and was plastered against him, shivering despite the heat.

After a bit of mutual calming and some gently prodding questions, Blair found out the girl's name was Philadelphia. She'd snorted when she told him and rolled her eyes, explaining hastily that she'd been named for the City of Brotherly Love, where she'd been conceived during an anti-war rally, blushing as she said it. It wasn't too hard for them to form a bond after that and they commiserated in whispers and giggles about the pitfalls of being children of the Flower Child generation. They were content to let the protest organizers make the demands to get them all released.

Blair put an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her arm soothingly, feeling absurdly adult-like as he comforted and reassured her. He'd learned many of the songs of the counterculture movement at an age when other preschoolers were learning Old MacDonald and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. The 59th Street Bridge Song, crooned softly and sweetly by Naomi, had lulled him to sleep many a night during most of his early childhood and always did the trick when he was feeling down. So he sang it to her as they huddled together in a corner of the cell, and it seemed to help.

In the end, they were all released after only about six hours with nothing more than harshly worded warnings. If there were indeed shady activities taking place at The Farm the military most likely didn't want any added attention drawn to the day's events by leveling charges.

As they were being escorted off the base, there were several soldiers who made a point of letting Blair and Philadelphia know exactly what they'd love to do to them if they'd been their kids, making the snide remarks just under their breath and out of earshot of anyone else. Seeing that it was getting to Philadelphia, Blair responded by flipping them off, infusing his facial expression with a carefully calculated amount of disrespect. He did it as much to impress her as to vent his indignation at their suggestions. By sheer happenstance, the moment was caught on film by a member of a news team that had stuck around. And the next morning Blair's defiant gesture was splashed all over the local television news reports and newspapers, making him somewhat of a hero in Philadelphia's eyes.

Blair did get his day or two of sun-worshiping, camping out with Philadelphia in the York River State Park, hiking and relaxing amid the beauty of the coastal estuary. In the cool evenings they spent long hours talking, star-gazing, and necking. Lots of necking. Lots of very creatively educational necking. But in her eyes taking things any further would've tainted what they'd experienced together.

Blair was a little disappointed, but he hadn't let it show. Not that there'd been a chance to let it show, what with all the really mind-blowing necking. He'd had no idea up until that point in his young life just how gratifying a strategically placed hand, a warm breath snuffled against sensitive skin, or a talented tongue darting in and out of an ear-an ear-could be.

Several days later Blair reflected on the brief protest and equally brief fling with Philadelphia as he drove his uncle's eighteen-wheeler across a long, lonely stretch of Montana in the dead of the night.

All in all he felt the whole experience had been worthwhile, and he did get some measure of satisfaction in knowing the protest may have at least brought some attention to suspicious government activities. After all, he was his mother's son so he took what Life sent his way and grooved on it, all the while chalking up the short stay behind bars to good karma.

And as the morning sun began to creep up over the horizon behind him, casting shades of honey-orange and pale yellow across the surrounding barren landscape, he gave his reflection in the rear view mirror a smirk and a satisfied nod.

Pretty faces and enticing smiles-Blair couldn't fathom there would ever be any drawbacks to being swayed by that.

~0~

“What's going on, Chief?” Jim's voice was calm and genuinely curious, but his stance and demeanor indicated he had a preconceived notion of what was going on. He stood in front of Blair, who was seated on the ground smack dab in the center of a line of six of the tribe's young women.

Just a short while earlier, Blair had been trying to get the girls to sing. He'd been trying to teach them a few of his favorite oldies. As a rule the Chopec weren't much for singing. Chanting and whooping, yes. But not singing. The girls had done pretty good with the basic melody but mangled the words. He figured Jim had heard them, and probably had a comment or two about it, but he knew it sure wasn't why Jim was standing here now.

“Going on, Jim?” Blair's voice was equally calm, but with a purposely perplexed air. He looked up at Jim squinty-eyed, and it wasn't due to the sun, which was to his back.

“Yes.” Jim waved one hand a bit impatiently, the gesture encompassing much more than just the seven people sitting on the ground. Jim repeated the question very slowly, one word at a time. It came out sounding more like a demand than a question. “What. Is. Going. On.”

“Uh, can you be a little more specific there, Jim?” Blair adjusted his gaze, going doe-eyed. He oozed innocuousness, a trick he learned from a few of his students back in the day.

“Ah,” was Jim's insightful, one word response. He gave Blair a measured look and canted his head just a little to the right.

“Ah?” Blair responded with a lopsided grin and dismissive shrug.

“It's never a good sign when you answer every one of my questions with a question, Chief. Classic avoidance tactic.” Jim canted his head to the left now, crossed his arms casually and shut his mouth. The muscle along his left jawline started jumping like the little grubs they tossed on hot rocks by the fireside to crisp before eating. Not good. Not the grubs, they were delicious. Jim's jaw; when it set that tempo, Blair knew he was tiptoeing on quicksand.

Apparently the young women knew it too. They fidgeted and glanced at each other anxiously. Blair turned to them and gave them a steadying look, a reassuring smile, and a wink. They relaxed a bit but kept wary eyes on Jim.

Blair directed his attention to Jim and with a disarmingly innocent grin, countered nonchalantly, “Really?”

“That's it, Sandburg!” Jim bellowed, startling the girls, scaring off a few scavenging monkeys, setting a small flock of parrots to flight, and drawing the attention of most of the tribe. “You have to the count of now to get your ass up off the ground and put an end to this, this, this...” Jim trailed off, floundering.

“Sit-in?” Blair offered helpfully, his voice deliberately pitched several decibels lower than Jim's.

“Sit-in,” Jim agreed gruffly with a stiff nod. He pointed an accusatory finger at Blair. “I get back from three days of scouting and hunting, I'm tired and-”

“Grumpy?” Blair cut in cheekily.

A slight furrowing of his brows and crinkling of his eyes, aimed squarely at Blair, was the only indication that Jim had caught the remark but had chosen to overlook it “-and I'm immediately summoned by the elders before I even have a chance to get a welcome home kiss from my little guppy-”

“Welcome back, Jim,” Blair commented sweetly, totally ignoring Jim's gruffness. “Sorry about not giving you a big 'ole smooch,” he added sincerely. “But I'm kinda in the middle of something here.”

He truly did feel bad about Jim's return; the guy did indeed look tired and in need of some pampering, which Blair usually eagerly and promptly saw to. He'd watched as Jim was set upon by two youngsters who'd been charged with the task of keeping lookout for him and had diligently carried out their appointed mandate. Despite Jim's protests, they'd divested him of his gear, dumping everything willy-nilly on the ground, much to Jim's displeasure, and hustled him off to the council hut with much commotion as soon as he set foot in the village.

Blair had decked himself out in his shaman and warrior accoutrements, but was still half naked. He knew the effect the look had on Jim; making out with the shaman was one of Jim's favorite games. But he hadn't dressed for Jim's benefit.

Right now his attire, even what little of it there was, lent him an air of authority.

Jim adjusted what was left of his own regalia while giving Blair a frown that spoke volumes. He took a deep breath, apparently undeterred by Blair's placating apology. He crooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the council hut. The growing number of onlookers turned as one to look in the direction he pointed. “They tell me you instigated this little sit in. And they're not too happy about it.”

“First of all,” Blair interrupted cheerfully. “I didn't instigate anything, Jim.” He spread his arms as if to envelop the girls next to him, flapping his hands enthusiastically. “They came to me.”

Jim threw his hands in the air and then planted them on his hips. He wore an expression that was a cross between exasperation and confusion. He took a deep, deep breath, then another one and condescendingly invited Blair to elaborate with a magnanimous swish of a hand. “Please, explain.”

Blair jiggled excitedly. “They want to be hunters, Jim. Isn't that great?” He held up a hand before Jim could interject any objections, as the elders had just the day before. “Jim, listen, man, I've seen them in action, practicing with slings and bows and knives. A couple of them are damn fine trackers. You get the picture. They're every bit as good as any of the other hunters in the tribe. At least I'm sure they would be if they were given a chance. So that's all they want. A chance. And since I'm the shaman they came to me to ask my advice once the elders turned them down flat, and...”

“And you advised them that it was a great idea; sure, why not?” Jim supplied sarcastically. “This isn't the USA, Chief; you may not agree with it but things are different here. They aren't going to be treated equal to the men.”

Blair gave Jim a withering, disapproving look that wasn't lost on the audience they now had. “First, that's bullshit, Jim, but a whole 'nother argument. Second, they're not asking for equal, that didn't even come up. They're asking for fair.” Blair sat up tall and straightened his shoulders, which the girls took as a sign he was defying Jim. They looked decidedly uncomfortable as Blair continued. “If they can hunt as well as the men, then it's in the best interest of the tribe to let them. I mean, let's face it, you and I both know there are a few of the guys that sure don't carry their weight in that department, and one or two who'd rather not be hunters at all. So how's that fair? To any of them? To the tribe?”

“So you told them it was okay to disregard the elders, sit their butts down, you along with them, and refuse to do anything until they got their way?” Jim summed up incredulously, giving Blair a furious glare.

“Well, yeah,” Blair concurred easily, sporting a smug grin and an innocent expression. “Or at least until they get a fair shot.”

“Unbelievable,” Jim responded, shaking his head. “So what am I supposed to tell the elders?”

“Why should you have to tell them anything?” Blair asked while mugging brazenly, having a pretty fair idea.

Jim drew himself up to his full impressive height, making it apparent to Blair he was well aware of their audience. And even though Jim wasn't speaking Quechua, Blair knew damn well everyone was riveted to every word he was saying and the manner in which he said it.

“Because I'm the sentinel. Because you're my guide. Because they want me to set you and your little band of renegades straight. Because they think you listen to me.” Jim rattled off his litany of reasons.

Blair snorted and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh, garnering a collective gasp from the crowd and eliciting a pissed-off look from Jim, who stepped menacingly closer. The girls all hastily scooted backward, but Blair didn't move an inch.

“Whoa,” Blair warned, all traces of humor gone from his voice. He shooed Jim off with both hands. “Don't step over the line unless you intend to join us.” He pointed at an indistinguishable spot on the ground as if there was a line of demarcation drawn.

Jim stopped short, looked down, and just shook his head. “You've lost your mind, Sandburg. The jungle heat has melted your brain. I oughta drag your little hippie-ass back to our hut and ground you 'til-”

Blair cut him off sharply with, “You can kiss my hippie-ass, Jim. Ground me? Right.” He arched his eyebrows and made sure the look he gave Jim was lovingly comical.

“Geez, Blair. A sit-in?” Jim retorted with a half-hearted moan. “You really think that's gonna work?”

Blair had placed himself and the girls strategically. They were rooted to a spot just in front of the hunters' lodge, a place strictly off limits to the women of the tribe. Blair knew, and he knew Jim knew, that it would be impossible for anyone to enter without physically uprooting him. He also knew no one wanted to mess with the shaman, not when the shaman's eyes glinted with purpose.

“Hey, man, it's worth a try. Power to the people, down with the establishment, right?” He screwed his face into a mock-defiant grimace and gave Jim the bird.

“All right, all right.” Jim surrendered with a sigh and grudging smile. “For what it's worth I'll tell them I think they should at least give your rabble-rousers a fair shot.” His smile widened and he extended it to include all the girls. They looked to Blair and when he gave them the thumbs up, they grinned back at Jim.

Jim started walking away, heading back toward the council hut, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. The crowd that had gathered parted to allow him to pass. Their heads whipped back and forth between Jim, Blair, and each other, whispering among themselves and not bothering to disguise their confusion.

After just a few steps, Jim stopped suddenly and turned slowly, a surprised look of enlightenment dawning on his features, his eyes unexpectedly sparkling with delight.

“What?” Blair laughed, eying Jim up and down suspiciously. “What, Jim?”

Jim didn't answer. He rocked back on his heels, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he studied Blair in silence for a few minutes.

“Do that again,” he said finally.

“Huh? Do what?” Blair's reply was less than eloquent and he realized he probably looked totally flummoxed.

“Flip me off, like you did just before,” Jim dared with a sly grin. “Go on,” he prompted when Blair hesitated.

“Jim, man, I'm sorry. I was just goofing around. I didn't mean it,” Blair said hastily. He glanced around, his neck and cheeks growing warm from the blush that was slowly building.

“Just do it, Sandburg,” Jim barked, his patience seemingly at an end.

“Fine.” Blair obliged impudently, once again brandishing his raised middle finger at Jim in an overly defiant, exaggerated salute.

“I knew it,” Jim said cryptically, his eyes still sparkling. He walked away again, and this time Blair could detect an irritatingly triumphant swagger in Jim's gait which he could not for the life of him explain and which left him feeling apprehensive.

Jim emerged from the council hut a surprisingly short time later. He cast the briefest of unreadable glances Blair's way and then picked up his gear, which was still where it had been dumped earlier, walked across camp to their hut, and disappeared inside.

Blair gulped and nervously chewed on his lower lip. But when he and the girls were invited, not summoned, to the council hut a few minutes later he grinned unabashedly and practically cha-cha'd all the way, drawing giggles from the girls who faithfully followed behind him, and a buzz of speculative small talk from the onlooking tribe.

Blair didn't say much to the elders. He didn't have to. Jim's intercession on their behalf and the girls' unwavering pluckiness won out. The girls would get their chance at the next coming of age hunter trials along with the young men.

By the time Blair finished celebrating the victory with the girls, he was brimming with slap-happy giddiness. He was able to maintain a dignified facade as he strode across the village. But once inside their hut he zig-zagged back and forth across the small confines like a pinball let loose, unable to contain himself.

He went on and on about the success of the sit-in, only marginally aware of Jim sitting cross-legged on their sleeping mat. He answered Jim's questions, giving details as requested when Jim managed to get a word in edgewise. He didn't even care that Jim was chuckling with amusement and teasing him about not coming up for air.

By the time he wore himself out and came to a stop, Blair was breathless. He stood at the edge of the mat covered in a glistening sheen, still decked out in his warrior-shaman splendor.

Jim grabbed Blair by an ankle and gave a calculated tug, knocking Blair off his feet and landing him in Jim's lap.

It was then that Blair noticed Jim was naked. And squeaky-clean. He'd most likely bathed in the river, probably showering in their favorite spot under the small, splashing falls near a grove of Camu Camu bushes; he smelled faintly of the flower's sweet aroma. Blair leaned in, kissed him and said softly, “Welcome home, Jim.”

Jim smiled as he kissed him back, bouncing Blair lightly. He slid Blair off his lap, laid him on his back, shushed him with a finger to his lips, and removed what little Blair was wearing. Then he climbed on top of Blair and straddled him, settling on Blair's belly and making himself comfortable. He crossed his arms and smiled a wicked, crooked Jim-smile.

Blair tried to ease up onto his elbows but Jim stopped him with a head shake and an “ah, ah, ah” warning.

“I'm staging a little sit-in of my own, Chief,” Jim stated, flagrantly flexing his thigh muscles and butt cheeks.

Blair laughed. “What are your demands?”

Jim hunched his shoulders and bobbled his head back and forth a little, as if he was undecided, making Blair laugh again.

Then he pompously said, “For starters, it'd be nice if I could go off for a day or two and know that when I came back you'd one, be there to greet me in the manner to which I've grown accustomed...” he rocked a little, making his cock twitch against Blair's belly suggestively, “and two, find you not up to your eyeballs in something you have no business being up to your eyeballs in. For cryin' out loud, Chief, will there ever be a pretty face you don't say no to?”

Blair ignored the dig about him going along with, all right...suggesting...the sit-in, and decided he'd save telling Jim just exactly how and why it was exactly something that he should be up to his eyeballs in for another time. Instead, he responded only to Jim's very last point.

“You've got a pretty face, Jim,” he said, straight-faced. He rolled his eyes upward and with a heavy sigh said, “I suppose I could start by saying no to you once in a while.” Then he stuck his tongue out and for the third time that day, flipped Jim off.

Jim clamped onto Blair's wrist and held on tight, giving it a wiggle. “I knew it!” he crowed. “It was you!” The playful sparkle from earlier in the day was back in his eyes, leaving Blair dazed and confused.

“Huh?” Blair reverted to his previous lack of eloquence.

“The grubby kid in that photo back in what? '84? '85? at a rally or protest or sit-in of some kind.” Jim laughed raucously. “It was you, wasn't it?”

“No way!” Blair replied, laughing along with Jim now as he realized just what Jim was referring to. “You saw that picture?”

“I don't think there was a buddy of mine at the time that didn't see or hear about that picture. You caused quite a stir for a while, Junior. You wouldn't believe what we said we'd do to you if we ever got our hands on you.”

Blair groaned and covered his eyes with the forearm not being held by Jim. “Do I even want to know?”

The question was rhetorical, but Jim answered anyway.

“It involved your hair, that finger, your butt, not necessarily in that order or in relation to each other, among other things.”

Blair lowered his arm a bit and peeked out at Jim. He answered teasingly, and in no way rhetorically this time, “Do you, um, think you'd want to do anything to me, say now, involving any of those things?”

Jim bent closer to Blair, steadying himself with his free hand and easing Blair's captured arm down to his side, but not letting go. He came nose to nose, forehead to forehead with Blair, making him go cross-eyed, and then he answered in a long, low, whispered breath.

“Oh yeah, baby.”

And after they'd had their way with each other several inventive times, Jim receiving the overdue welcome home he needed, Blair cradled Jim's head against his chest and sang him his favorite lullaby.

**  
The 59th Street Bridge Song  
\- by Simon and Garfunkel

Slow down, you move too fast.  
You got to make the morning last.  
Just kicking down the cobble stones.  
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

Ba da, Ba da, Ba da, Ba da...Feelin' Groovy.

Hello lamp-post,  
What cha knowin'?  
I've come to watch your flowers growin'.  
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?  
Doot-in' doo-doo,  
Feelin' groovy.

I've got no deeds to do,  
No promises to keep.  
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.  
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me.  
Life, I love you,  
All is groovy.


End file.
